


Ruins

by Sapph



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Eating Disorders, F/M, Gen, Guilt, Hydra (Marvel), Identity Issues, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:05:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1785082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sapph/pseuds/Sapph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The therapists peel layer and layer off his body until he's nothing but a skeleton with no identity. He fights them all the way, collecting his demons in the sockets of his skull and shattering his knuckles against the barren walls of his prison cell, just to make sure he still exists.</p><p>Until one day Coulson visits with sad eyes that should be spitting hatred and an offer he shouldn't have made. </p><p>He can't help but think, I've been here before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He is a monster, a killer, he's known it for years. Locked in his windowless cell, he starts to wonder if perhaps he's mistaken, perhaps he's but a cracked husk with no soul, not even an evil one.

 

And maybe that is worse. He has no family, no friends, no orders and no purpose.

 

He thinks he might be _nothing_.

 

\---

 

One of the guards asks him how many people he's killed. He tell him he doesn't know, that he never counted the deaths. It's a lie, he's counted three. One of them is a young girl with a sad little smile who put a blade to her wrist, leaving behind nothing but a letter and a hole in his heart. The other is a chocolate lab that gazed with trusting eyes and huddled against him in the rain, until a bullet tore away that loyalty. The last is a little boy he locked away so deep within the pit of his hatred and disgust, he choked on the darkness that surrounded him and suffocated out of existence.

 

He doesn't count his kills because he knows it isn't right to reduce lives to numbers.

 

It isn't right to take them either. He closes his eyes and wishes he'd been strong enough to take his own long before all of this ever started.

 

\---

 

The therapists peel layer and layer off his body until he's nothing but a skeleton with no identity. He fights them all the way, collecting his demons in the sockets of his skull and shattering his knuckles against the barren walls of his prison cell, just to make sure he still exists.

 

Until one day Coulson visits with sad eyes that should be spitting hatred and an offer he shouldn't have made.

 

He can't help but think, _I've been here before._

 

It only gets harder after that.

 

\---

 

There was girl once, who got under his skin, beautiful and witty and fierce; when he sees her again she is a young woman grown into herself, self-aware and determined. Her face is a little harder, her stance more confident, but her eyes hold the same whirlwind of emotion. She greets him with a small nod. The world is a dark place filled with pain and lies, and yet, through all Skye has suffered, her selfless empathy remains intact.

 

He thinks that's remarkable.

\---

 

They are rebuilding S.H.I.E.L.D. , but he knows he's only there to clean up Hydra.

 

\---

 

The threshold is a snare that strings him up with memories, a haunted passageway to a lab that was once filled with the chatter of synced voices, until he shattered their harmony.

 

“What are you doing?” Simmons asks, wide eyes upon the blood trailing down his arm.

 

 _I got shot_ , he should explain, but his lips won't form the words. There is a ghost beside her and it strangles him with regret. He wants to run and hide, to beg for forgiveness, wants her to scream and tell him to leave, wants her to confirm that he deserves to bleed for what he's done.

 

“Well, don't just stand there,” she says and her voice cracks. She's confused, ruffled, and hurting.

 

 _I'm sorry,_ he should have said all those months ago when he first arrived at the new base, but those are hollow words you lay at coffins when you have the right to grief. He has none, he knows, for he has killed the ease between them, has left their banter stunted and their eyes scarred with that awareness.

 

“For god's sake, you're bleeding all over the floor,” she snaps, but the emotion in her voice is blunt where it should be sharp, and somehow it cuts deeper that way.

 

He doesn't move and neither does she, her mouth wavers but forges no words. There is nothing but silence and the the taste of iron on his tongue, until someone comes to a halt behind him.

 

“Sit down on the table,” May orders. He blinks once and obeys.

 

Simmons lets out a bitter laugh. She does it so often now, it no longer takes them by surprise.

 

\---

 

The day Fitz is fit enough to rejoin the team, is the day he plans to die.

 

\---

 

In between missions he stays out of their way, listens when they want to talk but never initiates a conversation. He knows he has no right to join them, knows he is only here to eliminate the enemy threat, so he stands by as they talk or play games and awaits orders. During meal times, he hides in a corner and watches them eat, aware that they laugh more brightly when he's not around.

 

It is at one of those meals that Agent Triplett walks over and sits down next to him. There's hardly enough space for two grown men on the bench so they're pressed together at the knee and shoulder. It would make his palms sweat and his body tremble if he hadn't learned to hide his fear so long ago.

 

He waits for an accusation, a sudden movement or feint, but the man simply sighs and holds out a pack of crackers.

 

He stares at it.

 

“I don't bite,” Triplett says and the looks he gives him is kind but apprehensive, as if _he_ might.

 

He doesn't take the offered food, but if the other agent later asks him to play cards and he accepts, albeit suspiciously, nobody questions why.

 

 

\---

 

“There are boxes,” Skye says one day, appearing in the doorway of his bunk, “boxes filled with words I filed away. I want you to tell me which are truth.”

 

He tells her words were never the issue, he was the lie.

 

\---

 

He doesn't know what to think when May asks him to spar. He expects her to be harsher, forceful, more intent on causing him pain -but she's not.

 

She takes him down though, as usual. His back hits the mat and knocks the breath out of his lungs. They've done this a hundred times before. This is the part where he vaults up or rolls and avoids her kick, but he doesn't move, doesn't even bring his arms up to catch the blows.

 

She kicks him twice until she realizes what he's doing and lurches back, turning away to grab a towel.

 

“If you're a survivor,” she says curtly, wiping the sweat from her brow, “why do you act like you're already dead?”

 

She leaves before he can come up with a reply. He doesn't think he has one anyway.

 

\---

 

Coulson's eyes are always watching. He thinks he's not supposed to notice but he does, and it gets harder and harder not to falter beneath that heavy gaze.

 

He keeps moving because that's what he was trained to do, but the ground beneath him is scarred by fire, blackened and brittle ridges that threaten to crumble beneath his feet; the world behind him is still lit with flames and every time he looks back, he wonders how he's still here -is he still here?

 

He faces Coulson head on and dares not step back, because the fire licks his spine and he's done burning.

 

Though sometimes he fears there might be nothing left to burn at all.

 

\---

 

He wakes with a strangled scream that bashes against his teeth as he snaps his jaw shut and curls into the corner of his bunk, as if the shadows can shroud him from the darkness inside.

 

His body shudders from the memories that claw at the back of his mind in an attempt to drag themselves into existence. They mock and laugh and dig their claws into his stomach. He scrunches his eyes shut and fights the urge to throw up.

 

 _You're not real_ , he mouths silently, but the image won't fade. He bangs his head hard against the metal wall and regrets it instantly, not because it hurts, but because the dull thump echoes through the silence.

 

He knows better than to make a sound.

 

After a couple of tense seconds there's a knock on his door and a tiny voice asking if he's okay. It's Simmons, he can tell, Simmons who sounds worried and tired and he hates himself for waking her, if she'd been asleep at all.

 

He doesn't get a chance to answer before the door slides open. He uncurls instantly and lurches to his feet, ignoring the pang of guilt as the scientist jumps back in surprise. He watches as she gathers herself and holds up her hands up in a gesture of peace. “I was worried,” she says hesitantly as if she wants to add more.

 

“I'm fine,” he assures her, his shoulders straight and his head up because looking down shows weakness and he can't afford to be weak, not while they need him to take down the enemy.

 

He tries not to wonder what will happen to him after the main threat is out of the picture.

 

Her eyes flicker back and forth before she frowns and looks him in the eyes. Her gaze hits him in the gut and tears through his chest like a scalpel. “I heard you scream,” she whispers as if it is something she's not supposed to say out loud.

 

He can feel the tremor start somewhere between his shoulder blades, his quivering bones brittle where they should be steel, so he clenches his jaw and repeats, “I'm fine.”

 

Her brow scrunches and she cocks her head as if he is specimen to be dissected. “Stand down,” she says suddenly in a poor imitation of an actual command, and he wonders if she's mocking him.

 

He stands frozen, a little more hunched than usual as he tenses his muscles and tries to pretend that all he can see is this room, that there are no blood-stained hands to pat his back and no one has ever called him son, that the bright young woman in front of him has never suffered at his hand – but he can't.

 

“I though that would work,” she tells him with a sad curl of her lips. “Do you have them a lot? Nightmares, I mean. I'm assuming that's what it was because- don't get me wrong but you look absolutely terrible.” There a beat of silence and all he can do is stare. “Are you alright?”

 

He opens his mouth to responds, but she beat him to it. “You're fine. Right, silly me.” She sounds angry all of a sudden and he wonders if perhaps she'd been hoping to hear him say he feels awful.

 

“I-” her voice falters, “I don't think I ever knew you.” For once, it doesn't sound like an accusation, merely a fact stated.

 

 _That's okay,_ he wants to tell her, _neither do I._ But she steps forward and for a moment he thinks she's going to hit him.

 

Instead, she wraps around him like a bandage, soaking up all the tears he's learned to never shed.

 

\---

 

He sits in the lab and watches her work sometimes. It is still painful, but for some reason she looks happy when he's there, so he ignores his discomfort. He thinks perhaps she's simply used to having another presence in the room.

 

Skye walks in one day and freezes when she sees him. She glances at Simmons who is too caught up in her work to care, and her eyes widen and her lips twitch and at first he thinks she's angry, but the smile she gives him is pleased, maybe even proud, and something inside him snaps.

 

He doesn't _deserve_ this.

 

\---

 

The week leading up to Fitz' return is tense with anticipation. Skye bounds through the plane, talking about the team finally getting back together, and he tries not to flinch when she does. Even May smiles when she hears the news. Coulson seems more relaxed than he's been in months and it seems Skye's excitement has been rubbing off on him.

 

He's not the only one feeling anxious though. Simmons starts reorganizing the lab, mumbling about engineers who'll want everything to be in the exact place they left it at, and Trip indulges her. He doesn't dare ask her how that's even possible considering Fitz hasn't been on the Bus for over a year now.

 

He ignores the commotion and steels himself for what he has to do.

 

\---

 

He kneels and presses the frame of his gun into the young man's hand, angling the barrel against his head. _This is it,_ he thinks, _this is how it ends._

 

There is a gasp and the cold metal shakes against his skin, clipping his temple as it is wrenched away.

 

“Fuck you,” the engineer spits, his eyes filled with angry tears. “Fuck you for even thinking I could kill a friend.”

 

“I'm not your friend,” he says -because friends don't put you in a coma, don't make you suffer through months of therapy, don't leave you with brain damage and a limp that will never go away.

 

Fitz starts laughing and it doesn't hold a sad note like Jemma's does nor a hesitant one like Skye's, it is relieved and genuine and he sounds exactly the same as he did before. “I've missed you too, Ward.”

 

He will never understand but is evermore grateful. He makes a vow to keeps the other man safe, no matter what the cost. No one is ever going to harm him again.

 

That night he slinks into the cockpit and curls into the copilot's seat, watching the sun set above the clouds. May looks at him with unreadable eyes, but says nothing. He wonders if perhaps he should have offered her the gun instead, but figures if she wanted him dead, she would've just used her hands.

 

\---

 

The next day, Fitz pulls him to the table where the others are eating lunch. He sits like a statue and waits for someone to tell him to go, for the voices to falter and the smiles to fall flat -but they don't.

 

His throat feels so tight he can't force anything down. Instead, he listens to Fitz' exited chatter and thinks, _I missed this._

 

\---

 

It's supposed to be an easy op, a simple retrieval at an abandoned enemy base. Fitz comes along to make sure the weapon is transportable and Ward leads the way. He's been here before, back when it was still operational, but he pushes those thought from his mind and focusses on the mission at hand.

 

They retrieve the object but run into trouble on the way out. He's not sure who they are or what they're doing here. Perhaps they're simply Hydra soldiers hiding from the fall out, perhaps they somehow learned about the weapon and want it for themselves.

 

All that matters is that they're in the way. He thinks about running, but one look at Fitz and he knows that's not an option.

 

He takes out the two men with a couple of well placed blows and snaps the other's neck, knowing gunshots would attract others to their location.

 

They hurry through the compound and Fitz tries his best to keep up, but he's breathing hard and his limp grows more pronounced with every step.

 

“Maybe that was all of them,” the engineer says and that's when it all goes to hell.

 

There's a shout and a bang and he pushes the other man back into the hallway they came from. Fitz stumbles, catching himself on the wall, and he knows there's nowhere to go. They can't run without eventually being caught. He ignores the heat in his shoulder, avoids Fitz's questioning gaze, and vaults around the corner with his gun drawn.

 

What happens next is a blur of pain and panicked yells, until he's on his knees in a corridor, surrounded by dead men, his weapon discarded on the floor in front of him and more blood on his hands.

 

Killing always came too easy to him.

 

Someone grabs his arm and he flinches. “Sorry,” Fitz says. “Are you-”

 

He shakes his head, pushes up from the floor and squares his shoulders. His body aches and his soul is tired, but he keeps moving because he made a promise.

 

When he gets Fitz back to the safety of the plane, the relief almost make him collapse. They stumble onto the cargo ramp and the team crowds around the engineer, asking what the hell happened and is his leg okay. The man struggles out of Simmon's embrace, pushes Trip back and blurts, “he's hurt.”

 

A thousand faces turn to him as the world shudders and goes dark.

 

\---

 

When he wakes up, he's surrounded by eyes that avoid his. He shrugs off the odd behaviour and tells Simmons he's fine.

 

All she does is stare.

 

\---

 

Skye appears in the doorway of his bunk like she did so many months ago, except this time she steps inside and closes the door.

 

“Fitz told us,” is all she says, and there is no accusation in her voice, no anger or blame, just a hint of sadness and a certain fond exasperation he hasn't heard since-

 

She sits down next to him on the bed and frowns at her hands as if gathering her thoughts.

 

“Skye,” he forces out, because the silence scares him more than her words. _Told you what? h_ e wants to ask. _That I'm a monster? Didn't you know that already?_

 

She looks up at him and he's surprised by how much it hurts to have her so near.

 

She is an abyss, dark lashes around darker eyes, and he feels as if he's staring into his soul. It sparks the hatred in the pit of his stomach and clots the shame in his throat.

 

Delicate fingers twine with his and doubts collide with an unwavering stare.

 

“Honestly,” Skye says, “I thought robots were supposed to be smart.”

 

Her hands are small but they hold all of him. He feels like a puppet without strings, something you place on a dusty shelf and never think of again, but she cradles him to her chest, uncaring of his broken parts and finds something worth fixing.

 

\---

 

They build him up by breaking him down, tearing away at the walls Garrett enforced and the foundation his parents laid.

 

“There might be nothing left,” he warns them.

 

Coulson shakes his head and Skye waits patiently for his stupidity to pass.

 

“I suppose,” he allows, “even ruins can be rebuilt.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

It seems awkward at first, sitting in the lab with the both of them there, so he stops coming. He doesn't think Simmons even notices until one day they practically drag him into the lab. They can't of course, they're not strong enough physically, but he doesn't resist -even though their guiding hands fit into prints he can never shrug off and it makes him feel sapless like a leaf they could crumble in their fist.

 

They push him into a chair and use him as a sounding board for their ideas. He doesn't understand the majority of what they're saying but that's okay, because most of the time they come up with the answers themselves only seconds after asking.

 

_Why am I here,_ he wants to ask, but he doesn't. They still work well together, but he can see the slight distance between them and knows it's his fault.

 

\---

 

One night the whole team gathers to play scrabble. The plane's on automatic flight so even May has no excuse not to join, though no one but Coulson dares to actually say it. He watches them set up the board, debating whether or not he should leave before they notice he is there.

 

He startles when Fitz slaps him on the back and announces he's going down. The grin on the younger man's face is enough to settle some of his anxiety. It also makes it impossible not to stay.

 

Simmons is winning until it is unanimously decided -by May- that foreign languages are allowed. It so happens he's rather good at them, always has been really. He remembers how his grandmother used to read stories in French while he hung on her every word. There has always been something marvellous about language, something about the way it's strung together, always changing; an arrangement of innumerable variables forming substance -and when you finally grasp it, even just the basics, it is hard to remember the day you could not.

 

And that fascination, he realizes, is something that is inherently _his_.

 

\---

 

They celebrate Skye's birthday at the base. It's pure luck they don't have a mission that week and it allows them to prepare for what Fitz calls the 'birthday bash of the century'. Simmons hands him a box of decorations and tells him it's easier just to go along. He thinks he can handle an overeager rocket scientist if it makes Skye happy.

 

In the end, there are so many banners hung up in the refectory, even Skye rolls her eyes.

 

Trip offers him a drink but he refuses. He watches from the sidelines as they laugh and tell lame jokes at each other's expense. For a moment they look like ordinary people having fun. No worries, no Hydra, just them. It makes him nervous.

 

“Relax,” May says, suddenly appearing at his side. He tries to hide the fact that she startled him but the rather smug curl of her lips tells him he likely failed. They watch the others in a silence neither feel the need to fill.

 

Coulson comes over not long after, and he wonders whether they're aware of how often they gravitate towards each other. The older man leans against the table he's perched on and says, “You're both too young to be so serious.”

 

He fights the urge to roll his eyes and tell the new SHIELD director he should lay of the alcohol.

 

Some time later Trip disappears and comes back with a huge cake complete with candles. Simmons starts singing happy birthday and the others chime in. Fitz pesters him to join as well. It's all rather sappy, they're slightly drunk and off-key, but Skye's grin is so wide it's worth it.

 

She cuts him a piece and practically forces it down his throat. It makes him feel so sick, he throws it all back up later.

 

But at least he made her smile.

 

\---

 

Sometimes their eyes track his movements and he feels like a lab rat trapped in a cage, unable to escape the poking and prodding as they try to figure out whether or not their experiment is working out as planned.

 

Sometimes he thinks they're waiting for him to screw up, so that they can be done with him and say, _well at least we tried_.

 

He fears he might.

 

He's lost in thought when Triplet claps him on the back and Grant tries hard not to flinch, tries really hard but fails.

 

“Sorry,” the other agent says.

 

“It's fine,” he bites out, because it's better to be angry than afraid; and he's not that scared kid anymore.

 

_Then stop acting like it._

 

\---

 

Fitz possesses the kind of strength that is understated and easily dismissed by people who can't tell the difference between strong and tough, which also makes him the kind of soul you want to protect, want to shelter from the darkness of the outside world. The team means well, but Grant can tell that their worry drives the engineer up the wall. He throws himself into his work to prove he isn't weak, even though no one ever considered the thought, and stays on his feet until exhaustion makes his leg give out and Trip has to help him to his bunk.

 

No one says a thing, but days like this their glances are heavy and laced with resentment.

 

\---

 

He can't breath around the water in his throat, it slips into his spine and crawls into his veins until all his vertebrae dissolve and he is no one's blood.

 

_It's just a game_ , his brother says, bearing fists that bruise and eyes that bite. His father laughs and digs his fingers into his chest, wrenching his ribcage apart to wrap hands around his heart.

 

_Son,_ the monsters call him, and he screams.

 

He wakes up covered in cold sweat and the slimy discharge of memories that makes him stand beneath the shower spray for a couple minutes longer than usual.

 

\---

 

Fitz yawn and slides into the chair in front of him, looking rather ridiculous with his eyes half-open and his hair sticking up at odd angles.

 

“Bad night?” he forces out. His voice is rough and cracks somewhere in the middle, but the engineer doesn't seem to notice.

 

The mumbled reply is lost in another yawn. Grant chuckles and stands up to pour them some coffee because it doesn't seem like the other man is going to move any time soon.

 

“Thanks,” Fitz says with a lop-sided grin as he reaches out to wrap his hands around the steaming mug. They sit in silence for a while, drinking the hot liquid with cautious sips until Fitz looks a little more awake and he feels a little less broken.

 

It's Simmons who wakes next, looking far more collected than her counterpart. She takes one look at them, pulls up her nose and makes herself some tea.

 

“You two are up early,” she says, a little too casually.

 

_I had another dream,_ he considers saying, knowing she would understand, might even be able to help; but he swallows his words like a coward who hides in his bunk and manoeuvres around his team mates whenever he feels guilty.

 

Because he's still not certain if they _are_ his team mates.

 

\---

 

Paranoia is bound to be present after Hydra. When another S.H.I.E.L.D. mission goes south, people get suspicious.

 

“Is it possible our intel was somehow leaked?” Agent Stilinski asks. Her question is met with silence.

 

_Of course_ , he thinks as every eye in the room glances his way -he should have expected this.

 

So why didn't he?

 

“No,” Coulson replies at last, but Grant was trained to recognize the uncertainty in his voice.

 

He knows he brought this upon himself.

 

\---

 

The eyes in the mirror are his. They are dark and flat and collect every accusation thrown his way until he is a mere construction of their demands -it is not surprising, after all, his body never truly belonged to him.

 

He remembers trying so god damn hard to be better, clinging to the belief that if he did as he was told their brutal hands would turn gentle -but those illusions are dead and buried in graves of hardened skin.

 

He is nothing without those hands, just the echo of a frightened boy waiting to be forged into a man.

 

The eyes in the mirror are _dead_.

 

\---

 

“Are you alright?” Skye asks, concern evident in her voice. She looks so beautiful and warm and inviting, he wants pull her to his chest.

 

But it is humans who follow emotions; weapons are only supposed to follow commands.

 

He simply nods and awaits orders.

\---

 

Another dozen Hydra agents in custody and all he has to show for it are bruises and blood-stained hands -he thinks it should feel better doing the right thing, but it doesn't feel that different at all.

 

Agent Triplett's in the med bay with a bullet in his arm, and Agent May's standing next to him, a gash on her forehead and dried blood on her brow. He remembers saying they were cut from the same cloth, but knows better. The Cavalry's name is still whispered in hushed reverence, he is just a traitor whose name will be forgotten but for a select few who will carry it along like a disease -because May, despite her cold approach and outward indifference, saves people; he is only there to kill them.

 

When debrief is over, Coulson clasps his shoulder and tells him he did a good job. He wants to feel pleased or proud, but all he can think of is strong fingers squeezing the nape of his neck and a voice saying, “that's my boy.”

 

Sometimes he misses Garrett, the way he used to be when he pretended to care -he doesn't cry, doesn't mourn, just locks the grief away in a tiny metal box and reminds himself no one would understand.

 

\---

 

There's a bracelet around his wrist that doesn't come off; it brands him unworthy and reminds him why he's there.

 

\---

 

“Battleship?” Skye asks out of the blue. He takes one look at her, catches her twitching lips and mischievous eyes, and strangles the overwhelming urge to say yes.

 

“I should go over my report again,” he answers instead, ignoring the way her lips clinch and her brow furrows.

 

He doesn't ever want to need another person again, because no one's ever going to need him, not in the way it counts.

 

_You have to fight that weakness in you._

 

\---

 

He doesn't join them at meal times, doesn't even sit in the corner to watch them. Instead, he wanders around the plane like a ghost and drives his fists into the punching bag in the cargo hold until his knuckles are bloody and he feels no more.

 

Until one day, he turns, fingers slick with blood, to find FitzSimmons staring at him through the glass partition.

 

“I understand taking time for yourself,” Simmons tells him, pressing a cotton swab against his scraped skin, “but this isn't healthy.”

 

“Tell us how to help,” Fitz adds, “what's going through that thick skull?”

 

He doesn't respond, because no words can ever take back what he's done and no words will ever make things right. There is a tense silence until Simmons sighs and lets go of his hand.

 

“Say something,” Fitz says, a frustrated bite to his voice.

 

“You should've killed me.”

 

The shock on their faces is absurd. Surely they must have realized by now that they'd be better off without him.

 

\---

 

There are pins and needles in his arm and faces carved into his retina -faces with eyes that smoulder like wood chips in a fireplace; there are memories that won't burn out.

 

_Sweetie_ , his mother used to call him.

 

There is an ache that sneaks through his bones, a sudden blow that takes him by surprise; heart-wrenching pain reduced to flexing fingers and a rigid spine. There is an empty cavern behind his ribs where they once ripped into his heart and ate his soul -he once thought the blows would kill him.

 

_Be a man, sweetie_ , his mother would say.

 

There are so many monsters in his past, he wonders if perhaps it is he who drained their humanity.

 

\---

 

He's sitting at the counter, staring into his cup of tea when Skye wraps her arms around his shoulders and presses her face into the crook of his neck. He swallows the gasp that threatens to escape him and fights the urge to violently rip from her embrace.

 

“I don't want you to die,” she whispers, and he can hear the tears in her voice. Before he can second-guess what he's doing, he reaches up to touch her arm in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

 

He opens and closes his mouth but finds no sounds to convey his thoughts, and perhaps that's for the best because his lies have always been solid but somehow the truth leaves him feeling hollow.

 

“You hurt us,” she says and when he does flinch she tightens her arms around him. The constricting position makes him feel like an exposed nerve, but if she wants to hold him, he's not going to tell her no. “You can't take that back,” she continues, “but I know there's more to you than that. And none of us want you to hurt yourself.”

 

He twists in her hold and hesitantly rests his cheek against the crest of her head. _If only it were that simple_ , he thinks, _we could stay like this forever_. It's for the better they don't.

 

He is a poison spreading through their hearts and it's only a matter of time before he kills the last spark of pity that remains.

 

\---

 

“Do you like to read?” May asks him, and it might have been merely conversational if it had come from anyone else. “Before,” she continues, “you read a lot. Was it because of him?” There's no need to clarify who she means. He wonders if Skye told her about the books Garrett had assigned; he tries not to wonder what else she may have mentioned.

 

“No,” he replies because it is expected of him, “I did like it.”

 

She nods at his answer and stalks off.

 

Later, when he's getting ready to sleep, he finds a book on his pillow. It's just sitting there, innocently, but he wonders if this is another bomb he should disarm before it explodes in his face.

 

Because in the end it always does.

 

\---

 

He's reading on the couch when they storm in, chattering to each other. Fit is holding a bowl of pretzels and Simmons is carrying a bunch of DVDs in one hand and clasping a giant mug in the other.

 

“Oh,” they say as they see him on the couch. He just blinks.

 

“We thought it would be nice to unwind and watch a film,” Simmons explains.

 

He nods and reaches for his bookmark to place between the pages. Fitz makes a choked noise as he stands up to leave.

 

“You don't have to-” the engineer starts.

 

“Stay,” Jemma blurts.

 

He's confused for a moment, and they take advantage. Before he knows it, Simmons has crossed the room and nudged him down into his seat with her elbow while she's placing her burden onto the coffee table. She is nothing if not efficient.

 

He tries not to stare as she nestles into the couch and asks, “Brave or Frozen?”

 

He thinks it might be a trick question.

 

Simmons doesn't seem bothered by the lack of answer. She shoots Fitz a look he can't decipher and, out of nowhere, leans her head on his shoulder. He tenses at the contact but doesn't push her away. Fitz looks at them through narrowed eyes before sitting down at his other side. He doesn't lean against him like Simmons did, but sits close enough for Grant to know it's done on purpose. He ignores the hammering in his chest and the little voice that wonders what game they're playing.

 

“Pretzel,” Fitz offers, practically shoving the bowl into his face. “And we're watching Brave, cause we already decided so there was no need to bring that pile over here, but _Jemma_ is fickle like that.”

 

Simmons huffs before pointing out that someone should stand up to put in the DVD.

 

\---

 

Trip brings him a plate of food, claiming he made too much and seeing as he hadn't eaten yet, it would be a waste to throw it away.

 

He wonders if he's actually supposed to buy that.

 

\---

 

He doesn't understand why they're so focussed on him now. They crowd around him and talk and talk and he just want them to stop, wants them to back up and leave him alone.

 

He thinks about a forest where foreign voices were far in between and his own grew rough with disuse, but with it comes the image of a dog who was beside him the whole time, who made the solitude more bearable during days of self-pity, and it hurts too much.

 

There was a certain peace there, after that first year of struggling to survive, after the hunger and the thirst, after the cold and the desperation; there was a certain peace there he should have cherished.

 

But Garrett's visits always left him feeling just a little off-balance with a craving for human contact that wouldn't be fulfilled until the man's return months later. By then it would have faded to a gnawing in the pit of his stomach -one that began to resemble fear more than longing as time went on.

 

\---

 

It's embarrassing how easily they overpowered him.

 

He's rounding another abandoned corridor, making his way to where he knows FitzSimmons is holed up testing the object they were called to investigate, when he's hit from behind, hard enough for his vision to falter. Hands hold him up as he tries to twist away.

 

“It's okay,” someone shushes, plunging a needle into his neck. “I've got you.”

 

\---

 

“You're pathetic, sweetie,” his mother says, carding her fingers through his hair. “Pathetic,” she repeats, pulling at the strands so hard he thinks she might rip them out. Pain blossoms and his stomach rolls. He throws up.

 

“I'm sorry,” he says and Garrett laughs.

 

When he wakes again, he's covered in sweat is and there's dried vomit on his chin. A piercing pain shoots through his head as he tries to get up, it makes him gag and leaves him shuddering on the floor.

 

“What's this?” an amused voice call out. “Seems like we caught one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s little pet projects. You'd think they'd keep a better eye on a traitor. Then again, you look rather pathetic right now.”

 

_Fuck you_ , he tries to say, but his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and his lips won't form the required shapes -all that escapes is a groan.

 

He winces as something sharp is dragged along his back, scraping rather than piercing his skin, and realizes they took his clothes, including the tracker around his wrist.

 

“You know if there is one thing I can't stand,” the voice says, “it's traitors.”

 

He wonders if Coulson is thinking the same thing right now.

 

\---

 

It takes ages for the drugs to wear off and when they do, he's alone in a tiny cell nowhere near as clean as the one S.H.I.E.L.D. confined him to. His skin feels so clammy he can't tell whether or not he's bleeding, but every movement sends fire coursing through his back -he can't help but think his past has finally caught up and wonders if this time the flames will consume him.

 

Two guards come for him with flat voices and heedless hands, and drag him before eyes that glints like steel.

 

“Hail Hydra,” the man says.

 

“Hail Hydra,” the soldiers echo.

 

And it's as if something inside him crumbles; laughter wells inside his chest and crashes through his teeth -he can taste the ashes on his tongue.

 

He thinks of the team, of all the kindness and forgiveness he never earned, and knows

 

-he deserves to _pay_.

 


	3. Chapter 3

He spends his days studying blank walls and shuttered eyes. The guards mostly ignore him, they bring him enough food and water to keep him alive and hardly interact but for the occasional shove and command. He tries to keep track of the passing of time through the meals they bring, but it soon becomes clear that their visits are irregular.

 

It's an attempt to throw him off balance, but it hardly matters, counting the days is pointless anyway. After all, should they ever manage to find the hidden base, they might come, but he knows they're not coming to save him.

 

Every bite of stale bread is a struggle. It would be easier, he thinks, to just give up -trade one hell for another if he believed in such things- but the hunger is all-consuming and it forces him to eat what he is granted -it tastes like desperation.

 

It doesn't take him long to figure out that these are soldiers on the run. A rogue Hydra branch perhaps. These are clearly men trained to follow orders, disciplined but restless. It's not really surprising; after all, their faction is divided and their superior seems to be becoming increasingly unbalanced. Grant doesn't know the man's name, they only ever call him the commander, but he can tell that some of them doubt the man's sanity; he can read it on their faces, no matter how good they are at hiding their uncertainty.

 

There is a woman as well, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, she stares at him with something akin to pity and understanding. It confuses him. He wonders if she's planning to defect or set him free until he hears her speak and realizes she is the one who drugged him.

 

From what he's observed, she appears to be the unofficial second-in-command. She has a certain authority over the rest of the men, and if he would wager a bet, she would be the one they turn to should their commander be killed.

 

He keeps waiting for it to happen. The commander's visits are steadily increasing, as if he has nothing else to do; and perhaps he doesn't, what else does one do when laying low, but plan revenge and entertain yourself when you get bored?

 

Sometimes there are questions he won't answer, mostly there's just pain.

 

He keeps waiting for the female Hydra agent to take over, because he's sure he could convince her to kill him.

 

Perhaps this is why Fitz never pulled the trigger. He'll find death at the hands of a stranger instead, executed out of pity rather than justice -and wouldn't that be an end fitting to his insignificant life?

 

\---

 

“ _I love you,” Skye says, looming over him with wide eyes, tangled hair and those words.._

 

_He clenches his lips together and breathes through his nose, ignoring the wrenching ache in his chest that feels like longing._

 

_She laughs, and there are no knives as sharp as her indifference._

 

“ _I'm sorry,” she explains. “You never taught me how to lie.”_

 

He wakes to the loud clang of his cell door swinging shut, and suddenly there are hands dragging him up and chaining him to the wall.

 

“You don't look so good,” the commander says.

 

He could lash out, perhaps even break one of the men's legs, but what's the point?

 

“How about a game?” The slick smile on the commander's face is sickening. One of the guards shifts uncomfortably. It is a brief movement, easily missed if one isn't looking for it, but Grant knows it's only a matter of time before the last remnants of their loyalty disappear.

 

The thought makes him want to laugh, but he clenches his jaw and settles for a glare.

 

\---

 

“Would you like some water?” a voice asks. He lifts his head in surprise. It's the first time she has addressed him directly. He takes in her outstretched arm and determined expression and slowly uncurls from his spot against the wall, the thick chain around his ankle rattling as he does so. He doesn't reach for the plastic bottle in her hand, but cocks his head to show he's listening.

 

“I understand,” she tells him, her eyes brimming with sympathy. “It was either be locked up and tortured or do as they say. I understand why you chose to help them. You took any freedom you could get.” She reaches out as if to touch him but changes her mind mid-gesture. “Just cooperate and give the commander what he wants. It won't be easy, he is a- difficult man to convince, but Hydra will still be here for you when its done.” She smiles at him, not unkindly, but he thinks perhaps he was wrong, and she is crazier than the man she serves.

 

From then on he meets her gaze with a dispassionate stare and tries not to think about his own misguided loyalty. He wonders who recruited her, how old she was, and whether she ever regrets devoting her life to satisfying the needs of monsters.

 

He wonders if she even remembers the girl she was before.

 

\---

 

He doesn't tell them anything they want to know, not that he could tell them much. They might have found a use for him, but he is not a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent anymore.

 

The hunger claws at his stomach and he's always cold. Sometimes he swears he hears the familiar whine of a canine, but when he lifts his head to look there's nothing there.

 

The female agent only returns once, she doesn't event try to convince him to talk, just looks at him with a sad expression as if he's a weapon too damaged to repair.  
  


The glint in the commander's eyes tells him that if he isn't yet, he will be soon.

 

\---

 

He's not sure how many days have passed as he tracks the glint of metal across the room. There should be fear or defiance, there should be words to throw his tormentor off-balance; but he is too tired to think, too empty to feel, and too broken to fight back, so he does as he always did best and uses the violence to hold him together.

 

With every blow the shards of his existence rattle in their frame. When the pain gets too much, he cries and screams and curses, but his vocal cords produce no sound.

 

\---

 

There are times he can't remember losing consciousness, as if the world is simply blinking in and out of existence; but even though the darkness keeps swallowing him whole, it always spits him back out -as if there is something inside him even darkness cannot stand.

 

 _There is no rest for the wicked,_ his mother would quote in a disinterested tone as he cowered beneath his father's shadow.

 

He never wanted to be bad, and yet it seems that's all he's ever been -perhaps they knew it even then.

 

\---

 

One day, he wakes up to gunfire and shouting. He opens his eyes to see his sister's blurred face twist with horror as his brother screams for help. He wants to ask her why she's here after all that time he spent wishing he could see her again, but the words are lost somewhere between his lungs and his lips, and he ends up coughing up blood.

 

“It's okay, it's okay,” his sister rambles, her voice distorted by tears and strangely accented. “You're fine. You'll be just fine.” There are hands shifting his body and he jerks beneath their touch.

 

“Sorry. Sorry. Please be alright,” he hears his brother whisper as his vision blackens.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

The faceless figures tower over him, mouth-less demons with glowing eyes that speak in warped languages and dig their long, slender fingers into his flesh, detaching muscles and reassembling his skeleton in an attempt to make him whole.

 

He is engulfed by the flames that spark from their smouldering eyes as they gaze accusingly at his broken form, ripping the seams of scars to lay bare his defective parts.

 

He wants to tell them it's useless. There is not a single bone in his body that isn't crooked, not a single joint that hasn't been bent in the wrong direction.

 

There is no fixing him.

 

\---

 

"Welcome back," a familiar voice cuts through the murky darkness. He struggles to open his eyes, blinking against the austere whiteness of the room.

 

There isn't supposed to be so much light in his prison cell.

 

"You had us worried there," Skye says. He turns his head to look at her, ignoring the way the small movement sends a dull ache through his body. She looks gorgeous as always, even though her clothes are rumpled and exhaustion is evident in the blue tinge beneath her eyes, but there is a certain sadness to the stretch of her smile that unnerves him. She looks like she just returned from a tough mission, one that hit too close to home.

 

"You 'kay?" he forces out. His throat is parched and his voice is hoarse. She seems to realize something, stands up and comes back with a cup of ice chips.

 

"Don't be stupid," she tells him as she practically shoves one into his mouth. "You're the one who got-" she scrunches her face, flopping back down into the chair, and settles on, "hurt."

 

"I'm fine," he says automatically, but the words he utters sound as weak as he feels. There is a brief moment of hesitation before she leans in to cover his hand with her own.

 

"I missed you," she admits with a wry smile. He blinks, shudders and closes his eyes once more.

 

"Grant?" the phantom asks, pretending to be concerned.

 

He doesn't respond, just lies as still as possible and withdraws into his mind in the hopes of waking up.

 

He can take the commander and his games, it is the kindness that kills him.

 

\---

 

"I know you're awake," Coulson says. The stern note in the man's voice causes his eyes to fly open unwillingly. He blinks and stares at the ceiling, unable to face the ghosts that haunt him.

 

"They told me you're doing better than expected." Coulson continues, seemingly unfazed by his non-response. "You were pretty banged up when we found you. FitzSimmons, they-" He hears the older man swallow as if uncomfortable. "We had quite a hard time tearing them away from your side.”

 

The silence drags uneasily until he hears Coulson sigh. “We can't help you if you won't let us.”

 

He opens his mouth to reply but doesn't know what to say -he isn't even sure this is real.

 

There is a hand on his shoulder and it is heavy with meaning.

 

\---

 

The people that visit are so lifelike, he is almost fooled by their appearance, but their kind words and gentle gestures give them away -you don't treat monsters with sympathy, you throw them in a cage and beat them into submission.

 

There is a nagging voice inside his head that tells him to snap out of it. That this is reality.

 

He's not sure he wants it to be -he knows he doesn't deserves it.

 

\---

 

“You woke up before,” Simmons tells him, curled into the chair at his bedside. “You were hardly lucid, but you said- you called me Cassie.”

 

The cluster of longing in his throat forces him to swallow. He remembers the confusion; he remembers pain. He hopes there's no such thing as heaven, that his sister isn't looking down at him wondering when the boy she loved turned into a monster. A part of him wants to rear in resentment and spit, _when she abandoned me_ -but he was never able to blame her for leaving, only himself for not being good enough to make her stay.

 

Did she know he would turn out like this? Did she suspect? He bites his cheek and balls his right hand, the one Simmons can't see, into a fist. His mouth aches and his nails dig into the skin of his palm, but the tears still burn in his eyes. She must have loved him once, right? It can't have been a lie.

 

“I'm sorry,” Simmons says, as if sensing his anxiety. He shakes his head, because he is the one who could apologize for the rest of his life and it would never be enough.

 

He hears her straighten in her chair and knows she's peering at his face. It's strange, he thinks, how desperately he wants to turn and look at her, to soak up any comfort she offers. But he doesn't, because it is a trick and he doesn't want to see the distance in her eyes.

 

He doesn't want to face the fact that he lost her, just like he lost Cassandra -he doesn't want to wonder whether he ever had them in the first place.

 

\---

 

In his dreams he is all alone; he likes to pretend he's better off that way, but there is a fear in the pit of his stomach that won't leave, and he can _feel_ others out there watching him, laughing at his misery.

 

\---

 

“You know Skye's been asking Coulson about a truth serum,” Triplett murmurs beneath his breath as if it's a secret he's not supposed to disclose. “She believes you'd be so embarrassed you'd have to keep talking when it wears off.”

 

There is a long pause before he continues.

 

“You know what I think?” Trip asks, not really expecting an answer. “I think you just need some time. And when you finally get out of this damn bed, we'll take a walk around the block, or down the hall to the cafeteria I guess, and I'll get you food and you'll tell me to fuck off like I know you wanted to last time.”

 

There's a beat of silence that feels especially sad. It makes him feel guilty, but it also makes him confused.

 

“You're gonna be fine,” Trip says rather vehemently. “You know why? Because you're a fighter; and you're not alone in this. Not this time.”

 

\---

 

Sometimes he wakes up to find no one there and he can almost hear the shades laughing from the shadowy corners of the empty room.

 

He doesn't dare to close his eyes again for quite some time, afraid he'll be washed away by the stream of their mockery and drown in the abyss of their derision.

 

\---

 

“It's not fair,” Fitz complains loudly during one of his visits. “You spoke to Skye.” He blurts out the words as if he's been bottling them up for some time.

 

“You were never one for long conversations,” he continues as if he's making a simple observation. “But after- I didn't think you could get any quieter.” There is a pause. “Guess I was wrong huh.”

 

The young engineer is probably the only one who gets openly frustrated with his lack of response. He doesn't try to hide it, but he also doesn't engage in a direct confrontation. It holds a quiet strength, a refusal to deny what he's feeling. It makes Grant admire the man even more.

 

“Well anyway,” Fitz begins, “I guess I'll have to talk for you. Let's see. What's happening on the Bus? Trip's eating a lot more junk food now you're not around to compete at specialist body sculpting as Skye likes to call it. Speaking of Skye, she's driving May bonkers by slacking off as usual. You know, May started to respect you a lot more after she took on Skye's training-” He trails off there and Grant knows exactly why. “Anyway Skye's kinda driving everyone up the wall. She pretends she's alright but everyone can tell she's upset. She feels responsible, you know. She thinks it's her fault you're not responding to anyone.”

 

Grant closes his eyes and suppresses the sigh that threatens to escape as the guilt swells in his chest, pressing uncomfortably against his lungs.

 

Fitz clears his throat and continues. “Jemma's a mess too, not that she'll ever admit it. Seeing you like that, and the blood- I'm sorry,” he blurts out. “I mean, I wish we'd found you sooner. If we hadn't been so caught up in our work; if we'd noticed you were gone-”

 

He can hear the other man swallow, can sense the tremor growing in his voice, and it hurts, it hurts because Fitz has nothing to be sorry for. _He_ did nothing wrong. _He_ wasn't the one caught off guard. _He_ isn't the one failing at everything he does.

 

“What else is there to say?” the engineers says in a blatant attempt to restore his casual tone. “Coulson's stressed out, and considering all he has on his plate I'd say it's surprising he's still sane.” He pauses as if trying to come up with more stories. “Oh,” he exclaims as if he can't believe he forgot, “and Skye showed us this picture of grumpy cat and it reminded us of you so we printed it out and stuck it to your bunk door so it'd feel like you were there.”

 

It is so completely ridiculous; he turns his head and glares. The smiles that spreads across the engineers face is gigantic.

 

“I knew you were in there somewhere.”

 

\---

 

Sometimes he wakes up and waits for Garrett's voice to welcome him back.

 

The realization that he never will makes him sick.

 

\---

 

“No one deserves that kind of torture,” May says and she sounds almost guilty. She doesn't visit often, and when she does she hardly ever talks and that suits him just fine. Her fingers are surprisingly gentle as she twines them with his. “He had no right to do those things to you.”

 

Somehow, he doesn't think she's talking about the commander.

 

“I won't apologize for what I did,” she continues, “or the things I said afterwards, but I think you've suffered enough.”

 

He disagrees but doesn't interrupt.

 

“You were never S.H.I.E.L.D.” she says quietly and he knows better than to dismiss that voice. “You were never even Hydra. The only one you ever truly betrayed is yourself.”

 

Her words make his throat tightens involuntarily and the next breath he draws sounds suspiciously raspy.

 

“And I _am_ sorry,” she tell him almost soothingly, “for never noticing.”

 

He averts his head and squeezes her fingers as tightly as he can to hide the fact that he's shaking. She holds on to his hand in silence until the tremors subside, almost like an anchor. He won't allow himself to cry in front of her, but for a moment it feels like it might be safe to do so.

 

\---

 

He wakes up to a finger tracing patterns on his palm. He doesn't think his hand has ever been held as many times as it has the last couple of weeks.

 

“Did I wake you,” Skye asks softly. He hasn't seen her since that first day, but Fitz tells him she comes in and stays with him when he's sleeping. He wondering what's so fascinating about seeing him unconscious.

 

He shakes his head even though it's obvious she has and drinks in the sight of her, wondering if he'd drown should he stare too long.

 

“The doctors say you're almost ready to get out of that bed. I bet you're relieved.” She smiles then and its hesitant but warm -it makes the corner of his mouth curl just slightly.

 

_I missed you too_ , he wants to say, _I still do._

 

But there is so much light within her, he's afraid of what might happen if he reaches out.

 

\---

 

There are people to help him walk and people to help him talk. The doctors tell him he's doing great, the therapists hold in their sighs and attempt to coax out a response. He doesn't want to answer their questions and he definitely doesn't want to translate his feelings into words. There is danger in confession, and he knows very well that admittance and acceptance don't necessarily go hand in hand. In fact, divulging what is on his mind usually makes him feel worse.

 

The therapists don't like his silence, they tell him so truthfully. He acknowledges that it's hard to do your job when your patient won't cooperate, but he cannot even muster up the will to say he's sorry.

 

Because he is, sorry, for a lot of things -but people can only hurt you if you let them.

 

\---

 

Agent Triplett keeps his promise. When he's cleared for short walks, they all but stumble to the cafeteria, or rather he stumbles and Trip pretends he's drunk which is rather annoying because Grants wants nothing more than to pull away and walk on his own -he hates having to depend on others and yet, he thinks, wasn't that what he'd been doing all along?

 

Trip complains about the food and Grant nods at his loaded plate. His ribs ache and his head feels heavy; he wants nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep, but he doesn't want to come across as impolite or ungrateful.

 

In the end, Triplett half-carries him to his room, which is an impressing feat considering how tall he is. Trip insists he's not that heavy and Grant tries to ignore the concern in his voice.

 

\---

 

He doesn't want sympathy, he tells himself, he wants discipline, orders, he wants to be punished for his mistakes and praised for his successes. He wants Garrett to give him an objective.

 

-except, a tiny voice admits, perhaps he doesn't.

 

There is only one thing he knows for sure these days, and that is that he's terrified.

 

He needs someone to tell him what to do

 

-but he wants someone to listen.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

He should talk; he knows it bothers them that he doesn't, but every time his vocal cords vibrate he fears all they will produce is a scream, and he doesn't want to be labelled as insane.

 

What if he is?

 

Sometimes he plays out conversations in his head, imagines sounds strung together in sentences that convey the message he wants them to, but for all his eloquence in languages he finds no words that embody the meaning he envisions –he knows it started long ago, when despite his proficiency the word _no_ escaped him time and time again.

 

There are many words he wishes he'd never said, but so many more that never left his lips. They're stuck in his throat, clinging to the back of his teeth, and no matter how hard he tries they refuse to dislodge.

 

There is a sin inside him that breathes in silence but is whispered in the eyes of others as they set their gazes upon him -he can almost hear the charges in the air between them.

 

\---

 

He allows his eyes to trace the curve of Skye's back, the odd twist of her spine where she is curled into the tiny chair.

 

He knows she should not be here, should've washed her hands of him long ago. He fears his taint will stick to her forever, and she will never be truly happy until he is erased from her memory. But when he nods his head at a question and her eyes lit up with a spark he sorely missed, he wishes he could stay with her for just a little longer, just until the ache inside his chest dissolves his heart and he can die knowing that at least he was able to love.

 

She would be disgusted if she knew.

 

_I wouldn't like the real you_ , she had said all those years ago, when she confirmed what he had always known deep down.

 

No one ever does.

 

\---

 

They transfer him back to the base once he's able to walk on his own. He knows the doctors spoke with Coulson, knows his therapists believe he needs a safe and familiar environment to heal, that if he's to open up to anyone it would be the team. He wants to protest but cannot voice his reservations. It's not that he isn't glad to leave the medical facility behind, its clean atmosphere only ever served to make him feel filthy, it's that he's afraid he'll only end up disappointing them again.

 

_It's selfish_ , he thinks as he watches Simmons scour through his room for an extra pillow that isn't there. He should be able to ease their worries, not cause more. What use is he if he's broken?

 

“You need to rest,” she tells him, but he's tired of sitting still. His body is tense and his legs are eager to run. _You shouldn't walk around for so long_ , she had chided when she found him roaming the halls and had all but dragged him back to his room.

 

Sometimes she reminds him of a whirlwind, not wild and reckless but contained, small and inconspicuous with a strength that takes you by surprise. She tears emotion from his chest, all stern concern and silent encouragement -he can almost sense the phantom words forming on his tongue -but he is weak and he is scared and he just wants the world to stop for a second so he can breath.

 

_She would listen_ , his mind insists, but his heart shies away from the idea of trust. It is better for them if he keeps his distance; it is safer for him alone.

 

He shouldn't even be here. He doesn't deserve to be anywhere near them.

 

“You need to take your medicine.” She hands him the pills, her eyes wide and searching as she snaps him from his thoughts.

 

He nods, throws his head back and swallows them dry. She winces and his eyes fall to the glass of water in her other hand.

 

He doesn't know why, but he feels like crying.

 

\---

 

The start of the fight is a blur. All he remembers is Maynard throwing him into the car; his head meeting the frame with a crack. He can't stop the tears that blossom with the pain, they stream down his cheeks and congest his nose. His brother looks at him with something akin to horror and for a moment Grant dares to hope-

 

But cruel fingers grab his hair, pulling harshly at the strands and dragging him away from the driveway and into the garden. He bends Grant over the container of rainwater and forces him under. In an instant the daze evaporates, his legs kick desperately, his knees hitting the plastic barrel, while his hands beat uselessly against its sides.

 

His head is pulled up again and he gasps for air, sputtering. The water streams along his chin and down his neck where one of his brother's ruthless hands is holding him in place.

 

“You're not supposed to cry,” Maynard says, but Grant's ears are so clogged he sounds exactly like their father. The pursuing rush of water is accompanied by a pounding in his ears and a voice calling him weak. His lungs burn and his fingers grapple for a hold the smooth barrel doesn't supply. All of a sudden, the pressure on the back of his head disappears and he jerks backwards, falling to the grass and retching.

 

When he enters the house, his mother looks at his wet hair and shirt dripping water and smacks him around the head. Life goes on as if nothing happened, even his brother never breaches the topic again, and it would be okay if he didn't feel so different.

 

A part of him never comes up for air.

 

\---

 

Even in the familiar halls of the Playground they seem reluctant to leave him unsupervised. He wonders if they doubt his loyalty, if they suspect he might have been compromised. Sometimes he's not sure himself.

 

They always seem to find him when he's wandering through the facility and one vague comment from Fitz has him suspecting Skye might be keeping an eye on the surveillance cameras.

 

Trip's presence is always exuberant, he jokes and talks with more energy than Grant would be able to muster. Sometimes it's nice, distracting and exactly what he needs to keep his mind from straying to more dangerous topics; sometimes it tires him and he fights the urge to bang his head against the wall and beg to be left alone -he knows the man would see that as a victory.

 

Fitz follows him until they both get tired and end up seated on the floor somewhere, their backs against the wall and legs stretched out in front of them. He'll close his eyes and listen to the engineer's exited chatter about whatever project he's working on.

 

One of those days, his ribs hurt so much he starts to wheeze. He doesn't realize he's doing it till Fitz is leaning over him, concern evident in his startled gaze.

 

He opens his mouth to reassure the young man and hates himself when his mind backtracks and no sound emerges.

 

Simmons yells at them when she finds out, and while Fitz stammers a half-hearted protest, he fights every weak bone in his body that begs him to cower and wonders why he always seems to screw things up.

 

Shouldn't he be good doing what he's told?

 

\---

 

He finds a note under his door in Skye's handwriting. Its contents are light and innocent but the intention weighs heavy on his conscience. He crumples the paper in his hand and cries for what seems the first time in years. Harsh, ugly sobs shudder through his body as the world around him blurs -he covers his mouth and tries to stifle the pain.

 

He should be able to give them what they want.

 

\---

 

He wanders into one of the labs and watches FitzSimmons work. He tells himself it wasn't his intention to come here, that it wasn't loneliness driving him to seek someone out, but he knows it's a lie and it scares him.

 

Simmons smiles brightly when she finally looks up from the microscope and spots him hoovering in the doorway.

 

“How are you feeling?” she asks, shuffling papers on the desk. Fitz turns with a confused expression, before he too notices his presence and grins.

 

“Do you want to sit and watch,” Simmons continues, jotting down some notes. “We're almost finished here though. If you wait a few minutes we can get lunch.”

 

“Oh thank god,” Fitz whines, dropping the soldering iron he'd been using to his worktable. “I'm starving.”

 

Simmons rolls her eyes behind his back and Grant can't help but smile. It only lasts a second however, because Fitz turns and bumps into her. She clasps the table to steady herself but accidentally knocks down a glass beaker and curses.

 

They both dive down to pick up the shards and draw back when their hands touch. Suddenly, the tension is back. Fitz stands, awkwardly rubbing his hands on his trousers.

 

“It's just glass,” Simmons all but snaps at him when he tries to apologize. Her eyes seem locked to the broken object as if she cannot bear to look at the other scientist.

 

“Where are you going?” Fitz asks suddenly and Grant realizes he'd been unconsciously backing away. His gaze shoots from one to the other before averting to the ground.

 

Perhaps the guilt is written on his face or Fitz is more observant than they give him credit for, either way the man seems to come to a realization.

 

“What's going on between us,” Fitz says, glancing at Jemma, “it has nothing to do with you.” Simmons' eyes flicker away as if she's the one who is guilty.

 

“He's right,” she says hesitantly. “Where you worried?”

 

He just shakes his head and fights the urge to wrap his arms around his torso.

 

\---

 

“You look tired,” Skye tells him. She leans her elbow upon the table and presses the back of her bend fingers against her lips. He can see the smile curl behind her hand as he half-heartedly spears another carrot on his fork and tries not to be affected by her proximity.

 

“I told him he should rest more but he never listens,” Simmons lectures, glancing his way with something akin to fond exasperation. It makes his chest ache and his throat tighten -the next bite is even harder to swallow.

 

“Don't listen to them,” Fitz says, waving his fork back and forth. “If it was up to Jemma you'd be tied down to that awful hospital bed.”

 

He taps his fork against his plate to dislodge a piece of sausage that glistens with fat and ignores the shiver that runs down his spine.

 

“Honestly Fitz,” Simmons protests, oblivious. “I'm not that bad.”

 

“Oh I beg to differ,” Skye chimes, earning her a rather fierce scowl. She chuckles and tilts her head closer to his.

 

“You wouldn't know it by looking at her,” she mock whispers, “but she's quite the drill sergeant.”

 

He shakes his head at their antics and manages to smile when Skye bumps her shoulder into his.

 

\---

 

They depart on a mission not long after, reluctantly leaving him behind, and he is surprised at how much he misses them. The base feels empty without them. He doesn't know anyone else here, and those that know of him avoid him like the plague.

 

There aren't many who are informed of the exact nature of his crimes, but they know to stay away. Most just ignore him, but some don't bother to hide their contempt, and others scurry away as if afraid. Sometimes he wonders why the team can't recognize the monster they see in him and fears that they might still be clinging to the person they used to know -a person who never existed.

 

He finds himself more often than not alone in one of the small training rooms, pushing his limits until his whole body aches and he all but collapses onto his bed -but he faithfully takes his medicines on schedule just like Jemma told him to and feels almost proud.

 

Sometimes he sleeps entire days away and wakes up confused and disorientated, a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. He wraps his arms around his knees and hopes they return soon. Coulson had assured him they'd be back in two week tops.

 

But he's heard promises like that before.

 

\---

 

The relief he feels when they return unharmed is the final blow to a glass partition that has been cracked for quite some time. He shutters with fear and runs.

 

There is no lock on the door of his room, so he drags the heavy desk in front of it and curls against the hard wood. He rakes his hands through his hair, lacing his fingers on the back of his skull and clasping his head between his forearms. It feels like a prison, but one designed to keep others out, to secure him from the world outside that will only ever seek to mock his emotions. He should be able to suppress them, to lock them away somewhere no one -not even him- could ever find them.

 

He shouldn't be this weak.

 

There is shouting and a pounding on the door that grows more violent with every second that passes, until the desk bumps into his back with every impact. He knows he shouldn't have barricaded himself inside, that he's broken one of their rules and his disobedience will be punished.

 

He knows even Coulson's patience runs out sometimes.

 

His heads bounces off the wood as a particular hard blow sends the desk skidding forward. He knows the door is ajar by the way the harsh glow of the corridor lights slither through the crack, illuminating the room in a cold powdery blue.

 

“Open the damn door!” he hears agent Triplet yell, a desperate note to his voice. He can hear Coulson's urgent tenor in the background, before a hard kick wrenches the door open. The force sends him forward and he scrambles away from the doorway. It takes every ounce of resilience he has left to drag himself to his feet, to face his punishment like man rather than the coward he is.

 

It's Trip who enters first, wild-eyed and out of breath. May follows soon after, her usual frozen exterior rippling like water.

 

It almost feels surreal, like he's looking through a curtain of fog. It's then he realizes how rapid his breathing has become; his knees shake with the effort to keep him upright.

 

“I thought-” Trip stutters and it is so unlike the man that it snaps Grant's gaze in his direction. But he cannot hold the agent's frantic stare and averts his eyes. “Fuck,” he hears Triplet curse, and he can feel the ice settling in his ribcage even as his spine threatens to melt.

 

Coulson inches through the doorway and when his gaze falls on Grant, his body slumps as if someone popped a balloon inside his chest. “Thank god,” he exhales.

 

Grant blinks once, twice and anchors his eyes to a spot on the wall behind them. Every bone in his body screams at him to run and every muscle tenses for impact.

 

But there is only silence, and somehow that is worse.

 

\---

 

He sits on the chair in Coulson's office. It's a comfortable one as far as chairs go, but he would rather be back in that cell, his bare skin pressed against rough stone slick with blood.

 

“I don't understand,” Coulson is saying, frustration evident in his voice. “You won't talk. You barely eat. When you locked yourself in your room, we thought-” He hears the man sigh. “I'm worried about you. Maybe the doctors were wrong, maybe you need more help than we can provide.”

 

It is as if someone punched him in the gut repeatedly, except _that_ he could deal with. He knows he's finally pushed his boundaries, that they've given up, and all he can think is _please don't._

 

“Are we even helping, Grant?” Coulson continues, his voice rising as he remains unresponsive, though he sounds more sad than angry. “Because I sure don't know what to do. Are we making things worse?”

 

“No,” he croaks, and even though it comes out weak and desperate, it deafens the room.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

He doesn't quite understand why hearing him speak makes Coulson so absurdly happy, it's not as if he has anything meaningful to say.

 

But the gentle smile on the other man's face looks almost proud -it stirs memories he would rather forget.

 

\---

 

The following day, he asks Fitz what happened to the female Hydra agent, ignoring the way the man's eyes widen in surprise and his mouth falls open. He would have thought Coulson had told them by now. He describes her, in case there were others he never saw, in all her silent authority and midnight beauty, but as he begins to repeat what she told him, he breaks off abruptly and starts to wonder why the memory of this stranger seems so much more idealistic now. Sure, she'd shown him kindness at times, but in the end she'd been as merciless as any soldier.

 

Perhaps it had nothing to do with mercy, perhaps it was merely the fact that he'd seen in her the same decay that corrodes his soul -there is nothing as destructive as craving that which ruined you.

 

“There were no survivors,” the engineer answers hesitantly when he stays silent for too long.

 

He nods absent-mindedly, but isn't that surprised. They were all monsters after all, just like him.

 

Weren't they?

 

When Simmons walks in with a absent-minded _good morning_ and he responds in kind, she almost trips over her own feet in shock.

 

He has to admit, as he watches Fitz attempt to catch his breath, that it was pretty hilarious.

 

\---

 

No more than twenty minutes after he leaves FitzSimmons in the lab, he is accosted by a grinning brunette carrying a tablet in her hand.

 

“Sooo,” she drawls, a smirk on her face. “Wanna play battleship?”

 

He hesitates for a moment. “Okay,” he finally says and her smile breaks his heart.

 

“Prepare to get your ass handed to you, my dear Robot,” she jests, tapping her fist against his shoulder slowly enough that he doesn't flinch. It almost feels like before, except somehow even lighter.

 

\---

 

Trip brings him a bowl of fruit salad and looks at him expectantly.

 

“Fuck off,” he says without any real heat behind it.

 

The man laughs and hands him a fork. “Not a chance.”

 

\---

 

To say he is surprised when his door opens in the middle of the night would be an understatement. He's not sleeping but sitting on the floor, his legs stretched out in front of him and his back against the cool metal frame of his bed. The darkness surrounding him is strangely comforting and his mind curiously blank. He first hears the footsteps that halt outside his door, before it creaks open, a silver of light illuminating his room.

 

His first instinct is too lurch to his feet, but instead he remains seated and watches bewildered as a familiar figure slinks through the doorway.

 

“Oh,” Jemma says as she spot him on the floor, wide awake. “Hi.”

 

“Hi,” he replies in kind, his voice unnaturally soft in his unwillingness to disturb the hush of night. For a moment, the silence lingers, but as she changes positions, he can see her body tremble on the backdrop of light. There is some kind of liquid seeping into his heart, and it burns like ice.

 

He reaches up to his bedside table and flicks on the lamp. It glows only dimly and his eyes are grateful. The action seems to be enough of an invitation for Simmons to close the door behind her, almost stumbling over her own feet as she moves to sit down next to him. Their shoulders are not quite touching but he feels her nonetheless.

 

There are tears on her cheeks and a redness to her eyes that kindles a spark of anger at whatever caused her to be upset. It is instantly followed by a familiar sense of guilt as he recalls his own transgressions.

 

He wonders how she can sit here in near darkness, next to a man who broke all his promises and let her fall to the water below. She was always strong, courageous in a way he knows he'll never be, but it still baffles him that she isn't afraid.

 

“I had this dream,” she says, then laughs, rubs her eyes, and pulls her knees up to her chest. “It's silly really.”

 

He watches her before slowly reaching out, making sure the action is clearly visible and giving her enough time to slap his hand away in disgust, and cups her kneecap. He's not quite sure whether he is trying to reassure her that she can talk if she wants to, or himself that she is real and not some phantom his tired mind concocted to mess with his head.

 

Her gaze flickers to his hand before she glances up with a soft and haunted smile that bleeds into quivering resistance as the tears start to fall once more. She surprises him then, by reaching out and wrapping her arms around his waist like she had done months ago when he had been the one troubled by nightmares. He embraces her hesitantly as she shudders against him, supporting the back of her neck, her chin presses uncomfortably against his clavicle.

 

“You're okay,” he whispers, clutching her tighter to his chest when she doesn't resist. He remembers how hard his sister used to clutch him when he cried, as if she was afraid he would fall apart if she let go.

 

“I'm sorry,” Jemma mumbles, pulling back. He finds himself almost reluctant to release his grip but does so anyway.

 

She leans her head against his shoulder and sighs. “I'm used to dead bodies,” she says. “Blood doesn't frighten me, but-” He can feel the shudder that wrecks her body and shifts her weight so he can wrap an arm around her shoulders. She all but slumps into his embrace as if relieved at the contact -as if she doesn't notice the taint of his touch.

 

Part of him implores to pull away, that being this close to a person bodes nothing good, but a bigger part is surprised by how much he wants to- needs to comfort her.

 

It doesn't feel like a weakness, not if it helps her.

 

“You were covered with it,” she exhales, “I thought you were dead.”

 

He goes rigid, and she must have noticed, because she lifts her head and gently tilts his so he can't avoid her gaze.

 

“Don't die,” she says and this time her voice is steady and vehement. He swallows around the lump in his throat and nods.

 

It's another empty promise considering his role in this team, one that weighs heavy on his heart.

 

\---

 

He wakes up sore and uncomfortable, his limbs tingling and his muscles protesting as he moves. He's not unaccustomed to sleeping on the floor, truth be told he has slept on worse terrain, but he usually doesn't do it sitting up. The heavy weight against his chest shifts and mutters into his shirt.

 

For a brief moment he can't remember where he is and who is touching him. He tenses, throat clenching as his stomach rolls dangerously; but then she mumbles something about polypeptides in that accent of hers and he slumps back against the bed. She snorts adorably and begins to slide forward. He catches her and positions her head back on his shoulder, uncertain how they managed to sleep like this.

 

“Jemma,” he says after a few minutes, jostling her shoulder gently. He doesn't really want to wake her, a part of him is afraid she'll resent him when she does, but he has no choice. He's supposed to meet Coulson at 8:30 and one glance at his alarm clock tells him it's already 8:07. It confuses him for a moment because he usually wakes earlier, but he has been off schedule a lot lately. He needs to get up though, considering how clammy his skin feels where she's been leaning against him, he could definitely use a shower first.

 

“It's downtime,” she whines, just when he thinks she's impossible to rouse, “we get to sleep in.”

 

“You should go to your room and sleep in your bed then,” he tells her. “This can't be comfortable.”

 

“No,” she agrees, “I think my spine grew crooked overnight.” She pulls away and stretches, first her arms and then her legs. “Ouch, how did we fall asleep like this?”

 

“I'm sorry,” he says. She blinks and glances at him oddly, before a yawn breaks across her face. She covers her mouth impatiently.

 

“No, no, I should apologize,” she says, blushing self-consciously. “I didn't mean to fall asleep on you. And I mean that literally,” she adds, patting his chest. He can't help but look down as she does so. She quickly withdraws her hand and runs it through her hair which looks surprisingly neat for having just woken up.

 

“I don't mind,” he tells her, and he is slightly surprised at the truth of that statement. Somehow her proximity doesn't feel threatening, in fact it hardly seems to have bothered him at all. It's just hard to imagine it might be the same for her considering.

 

“Thank you,” she says, her lips curving. He can't help but smile back.

 

\---

 

“We can talk about anything you want,” Coulson says. He nods but finds that the words don't come easily. The other man seems to understand though and mostly they just make small-talk, or rather Coulson does and he tries his best to respond. He doesn't want to be rude, but interactions like this never came naturally to him.

 

Grant doesn't quite understand why Coulson's freeing this hour just to converse with him. He knows how much the older man has on his plate right now.

 

He would find it oddly touching but doesn't dare to read too much into it. It's an evaluation, just another test he has to pass.

 

\---

 

“You're surprisingly soft for being all hard edges,” Skye tells him later, a knowing glint in her eyes, but he cannot quite figure out what it means.

 

So he just mumbles a thank you and ignores the way his heart expands when she laughs.

 

\---

 

It's only a matter of time before another mission pops up. He assumes he'll be going with them up until Coulson informs him he is take some more time to rest and heal up. True, his side still aches from time to time, but most of the wounds have healed completely, and he can speak now, so he doesn't understand the problem.

 

It is May who shakes her head at him with a half-smile and tells him not to rush his recovery. She even promises to spar with him when they gets back, to check if he isn't getting rusty. He wants to be offended by her comment, but finds it hard to stay angry these days.

 

If he is honest with himself, he knows he's not at his best, but he's joined missions worse for wear.

 

_I told you it would be tough,_ Garrett would lecture, frowning with disapproval, and he would feel guilty for complaining.

 

When he returns to his room he finds a new book on his pillow while the one that had been lying on his desk is gone.

 

He remembers he finished reading it the day before, curled up on the couch in the rec room closest to their sleeping quarters, and trying not to be distracted by Skye typing on her laptop, dark hair framing her inclined head.

 

He wonders, not for the first time, how much they tell each other.

 

\---

 

He's finished the novel by the time they get back, two days later. Returning it to its owner is the first thing he does when he sees them. May takes it from his outstretched hand and tells him to meet her in the practice room in an hour.

 

He soon finds himself flat on his back on one the mats, staring up as she smirks down at him. Something inside him uncoils suddenly and it takes him by surprise -laughter bubbles from his chest.

 

She looks down at him smugly and he feels only slightly horrified by his outburst. He curbs the impulse to duck his head abashedly, and when she offers him a hand, he hardly hesitates to take it.

 

\---

 

The only forgiveness he ever knew before he met them was the back of a hand -his therapists called it abuse even though he'd countered he would often ask for it.

 

He used to think enduring punishment was the only way to redeem himself. He looks at Fitz sleeping in the arm chair while he's awake in the same room and doesn't know how to handle the trust they give him so freely.

 

He gets up and covers the dozing engineer with one of blankets out of the the wall closet. It's a simple action, but his throat feels uncomfortably tight and his hands shake as he adjusts the blanket around the man's shoulders. He is infinitely grateful it doesn't wake him up. At least that way, he'll think it was someone else.

 

\---

 

He feels useless watching them work. When they leave on a mission he feels alone and purposeless. He throws himself into his workouts because getting back into shape is all that there is left to do.

 

Coulson gives him a couple of files to look over but it all seems trivial, something to keep him busy while they're gone -the way you would give a dog a toy to distract it.

 

He runs the treadmill until spot dance across his vision, does push-up until his arm threaten to give out, and occasionally convinces one of the other agents to spar with him. It's almost too easy to slip into his specialist persona, but he's careful not to cause any accidental injuries, discerningly aware of the consequences such an incident might have.

 

He gets his meals from the dining hall every day because he suspects they report to Coulson. He's not actually certain if he's allowed to take the food to his room, but if anyone disapproves they remain mum.

 

\---

 

When he's finally cleared for duty, despite Coulson's lingering concern, he can't help but feel relieved.

 

The moment he sets foot on the plane, he is surrounded by faces that wear their excitement openly. He avoids their searching eyes but returns their smiles with a hammering heart. He can't help but think, _maybe this is were I belong._

 

But when Coulson fastens the new tracking bracelet around his wrist, he knows he never will.

 


	7. Chapter 7

“One week,” Simmons says, the tone of her voice carrying clear disapproval. She presses the alcohol swab rather roughly against his forehead and glares at the wound like it has personally insulted her. “One week and you're already injured.”

 

“It's just a cut,” he reminds her, keeping his tone neutral and trying not to flinch as she jerks her arm.

 

She sighs exasperatedly and he bites back an apology because he knows she'd only scoff. “It's still an injury.”

 

“What Simmons means to say,” Skye chimes in without looking up from her tablet, “is that next time a suspect throws some ugly clawed-monkey-figurine-thing at you, you should dodge... or catch it for Fitz.”

 

“I'll keep that in mind,” he responds dryly. She looks up and grins. Their eyes remain locked and something in his chest tightens.

 

“I'm finished,” Simmons announced, stepping back and gathering up the medical supplies. “Now I'd prefer not to see you in here any time soon.”

 

Biting the inside of his cheek, he lowers his gaze and nods.

 

“She didn't mean it like that,” Skye hurries, placing aside her tablet as she rises from the chair. Her sudden approach makes his shoulders tense and his jaw twitch. He's more embarrassed of his reaction than he is upset about the words. He pushes down the shame and schools his features, wishing Skye hadn't noticed the lapse.

 

“I didn't mean what?” Simmons asks absent-mindedly as she closes the kit with a click.

 

Skye opens her mouth to respond, but is interrupted by Fitz' entrance. The engineer's carrying a gigantic cardboard box that obscures his vision and forces him to step sideways every now and then to regain his balance.

 

“What are you girls nattering about?” He says, almost walking into a table. Grant lurches to his feet and takes the heavy weight from the engineer's hands, placing it down on the holotable.

 

“Oh, hi Ward,” Fitz says as if surprised to see him.

 

He nods at the young man and leaves the room before Skye remembers what she wanted to say.

 

\---

 

Choice is like a a splitting corridor, you need to pick one passage to move forward; but no one ever taught him how to choose the right way, only to stand still and wait for orders.

 

He used to look for freedom in the forest, in the tall trees and the curving river, in the open sky that stretched further than he would ever reach; but it was never freedom he found there, only the illusion of such. And now it feels like he is trapped, like he has always been leashed to another's vision, and those chains, they still dangle from his limbs waiting for someone to pull.

 

Fitz places a cup of tea in front of him. He watched Simmons brew it only minutes ago but couldn't bring himself to ask if she could spare some for him.

 

“Thank you,” he says in a hushed voice. Fitz only nods and sits down across from him, leafing through a file while he sips his own mug of hot tea.

 

May comes in a while later, eliciting a curious glance from the engineer before he refocusses his attention on his work. She makes her own cup of tea and joins them at the table. He lowers his eyes to the porcelain in his hands, gaze catching briefly on the glint of metal, and suddenly the room is too small. He thinks he might understand what Skye meant when she said they tagged her like a dog -but you tag a dog because you care for them, not because they've proven to be dangerous.

 

Maybe they should muzzle him.

 

The thoughts makes him snort and for a moment he forgets where he is, for a moment he doesn't notice the two heads that shoot up at the sound -but when he does his eyes widen and he takes another gulp of his tea, hoping they won't ask-

 

“What so funny?” Fitz inquires with a grin.

 

He shrugs his shoulders slightly, hoping the gesture won't be considered rude.

 

“It's just- I haven't heard you laugh in a while,” Fitz continues, stumbling over his words and still smiling. “It's uh... good.”

 

He looks up, absent-mindedly tracing the rim of his cup with his index finger, but his gaze meets May's and he can't stand to look into those fathomless depths, because they carry a weight he is familiar with and a lack of accusation he still can't comprehend -but he can't help but feel like they burn through him, like they're slipping past the cracks in his composure to search for weaknesses to exploit.

 

_Like Garrett used to,_ runs through is mind _,_ but that's not right, because Garrett didn't- he didn't-

 

It was supposed to make him _stronger_.

 

He shudders, follows the flicker of her heavy gaze to his right wrist and swallows the bile that rises in his throat. Before he realizes what he's doing, he's pushed the chair back to stand up, too quickly, because he knocks over the teacup and flinches as the remaining content splatters across the table top.

 

Fitz curses and quickly gathers his papers before the liquid can reach them. He should help, but his body's frozen and his muscles locked -all he can do is stare.

 

May tears off some paper towels from the roll to soak up the tea. She shoots him a look he should be able to read, but he can't, and rights his cup.

 

He can't stop his hands from shaking.

 

“Ward?” May spurs and he flinches at the harsh sound of his name. She doesn't look angry but it's always been hard to tell with her.

 

“Hey, it's okay,” Fitz adds, “it's not even that much.” But the corner of one of his papers is wet and he did that.

 

It's his fault. It's all his fault.

 

He regrets it later, but leaving the room seemed the best option at the time.

 

\---

 

“He doesn't look like he could hurt a fly,” Skye remarks as she regards the suspect's photo on the screen.

 

“He's a murderer,” Coulson says rather harshly, seemingly too tired to pick up on her sarcasm. Skye merely raises an eyebrow.

 

Simmons glances at him from the corner of her eyes, so briefly he almost doesn't catch it. But he does, and her gaze barrels into him like a landslide, ripping out every root he'd thought he'd planted and knocking him back into the pit of his own making, where the walls drip blood and his bones were sharpened into weapons.

 

It's all he'll ever be.

 

He is a skeleton wrapped in skin that was never his, a monster wearing the masks his creators crafted. Garrett promised to turn him into a man, but he was a fool to think he could ever be human, could ever fit in amongst glares as blinding as they were cold.

 

They're all dead now and so is he. His mind is a desert of sun-bleached bones and abandoned cargo and still his stubborn heart continues beating -the sand threatens to make his eyes sting but water is too precious to surrender in a place like this.

 

He clenches his fists so tightly his nails dig into the soft flesh of his palm, but the pain is barely enough to ground him. When something brushes his upper arm, he recoils at the sudden touch before realizing he's still in the command centre.

 

“Alright there?” Trip asks. He nods sharply and bites his tongue, but the other agent doesn't seem convinced.

 

There are too many eyes on him, but he clenches his jaw and feels nothing.

 

Nothing except pain.

 

\---

 

He doesn't understand just what it means at first. It doesn't completely sink in until he's at her funeral and there's no one there to hold his hand or wipe away his tears.

 

There's no one there to notice the moment his world shatters.

 

He watches numbly as they lower his sister's coffin into the ground and wonders where he went wrong, why she would leave him behind in a world that has no place for him. He thinks about all the times she said she loved him and wonders what love is worth when it's so easily discarded.

 

He never attempts to verbalize those feelings again, not until the world collapses once more and then he's back where he started.

 

Alone.

 

\---

 

He drives his fists into the punching bag, again and again until he feels like he can breath once more. But it's a lie, because his lungs won't expand like they used to, not since Garrett-

 

He feels light-headed, like the world's drifting away and he can't keep up. He doesn't know which way to turn, doesn't want to stop and rest because peace is only ever temporary and soon enough it'll disappear.

 

He steadies the swinging bag and leans his forehead against the rough fabric, sweat clinging to his flushed skin.

 

Perhaps Garrett was right and it's easier not to care -but he doesn't know how.

 

\---

 

“Whatever you're thinking, stop,” Simmons corners him the next day after they've delivered the target to the new high security prison. He is once more taken aback by the force that resides in the scientist's small frame and, confronted with her anger, subconsciously takes a step back.

 

“I'm sorry,” he mutters, unsure of what he did wrong. It took longer than expected and they're all a little tired but for the most part the mission went without a hitch.

 

She sighs in frustration. “Don't apologize, just tell me what it is.”

 

He blinks and tries to figure out what she wants, until she grows tired of his confused silence.

 

“Why are you avoiding me?” she demands, placing her hands on her hips.

 

“I'm not-” he cuts himself off, because it's a lie and he doesn't want to lie to her, not again. “I'm sorry,” he repeats instead, and god he feels pathetic, apologizing over and over again when he knows it doesn't mean a thing.

 

“I thought I told you not to apologize,” she says gently, though he catches the underlying strain. “I'm starting to think your vocabulary doesn't extend beyond 'sorry' and 'fine'.” He looks up into her concerned gaze and feels terrible.

 

“You can tell me what's on your mind, Grant,” she coaxes and he wonders when everyone started calling him by his first name. “There is no right or wrong answer.”

 

_No_ , he thinks, _but there's always one you want to hear._

 

“You don't have to talk,” she finally gives in, “but if you decide you want to, I'll listen.”

 

“Okay,” he says softly, because his throat feels too tight and he doesn't think he can force out any more words.

 

The corners of her mouth lift into a brief smile. “Okay.”

 

\---

 

“Everything alright now?” Trip asks him later. He shakes his head and reluctantly chews on a carrot stick, acutely aware of the other man's calculating gaze.

 

“I'm not sure it ever will be,” he says and he can tell it takes the other agent by surprise.

 

There's a beat of silence before he responds. “Why do you say that?”

 

“I don't know how,” Grant admits and wonders if he should just shut up.

 

“How what?” Trip encourages, brow furrowing in thought.

 

He flexes his right wrist, wincing when it pops, and moistens his dry lips. “To make it alright.”

 

\---

 

He takes a sip of water and leans back against the wall, watching FitzSimmons bicker about something he doesn't understand. He tries not to smile when Skye chimes in and agrees with Simmons even though he's pretty sure she has no clue to what they're discussing either and Fitz pulls a ridiculous insulted face.

 

They're all surprised when Coulson walks in and tells them to lower their voices, causing two heads to duck in embarrassment and one to start laughing.

 

He watches their antics and cannot help but be amazed by how young they look. Even with everything that's resting on their shoulders, they endure so gracefully. There is so much light within them, sometimes it hurts to look their way -but mostly he just wants to be near them, because their mere presence warms him in ways he could never have expected.

 

But you can't always have what you want.

 

His left hand unconsciously drifts to his right wrist. It's only when his fingers brush the cool metal that he becomes aware of the action. He looks down at the bracelet and tugs useless at its smooth edges.

 

He hasn't earned his place among them, and perhaps he never will -shadows need the light to exist but they are considered darkness still.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised a new chapter now my exams are over. For anyone who thinks they can put up with more of me and wants to add me on tumblr: http://sapphwrites.tumblr.com/  
> If you don't want to add me (which is totally understandable) but think you have cool prompt or an awesome blog I might enjoy be sure to message me ;)  
> Hope you liked it ^^


	8. Chapter 8

The smile remains frozen on his face but his eyes shutter. He thinks he should be grateful as Garrett disciplines him, breaking the boy he used to be and moulding him into someone stronger; but all he feels is the cracking of ribs and a desperate kind of confusion as he fails to figure out what he did wrong this time.

 

“Sorry,” he gasps, stumbling back when Garrett releases him, and tries to catch his breath. It earns him another blow.

 

His body jerks and his stomach contracts; he swallows the bile that rises in his throat. “Thank you,” he corrects himself, slumping with relief as Garrett smiles, the cold rage draining from his face. He feels almost proud at that.

 

But he also feels sick.

 

_It's my fault_ , he thinks when Garrett leaves again. He shouldn't have kept the man waiting; should've known he was coming back today. _But how?_

 

He shakes the thought. He has no right to think like that. Garrett saved him, gave him this chance and he should try harder not to screw it up.

 

Buddy noses the crook of his elbow. He looks down and grins, scratching behind the lab's ears

 

Garrett even gave him his best friend.

 

He _is_ grateful.

 

\---

 

With the loud crack of a gunshot the world pops to static. The tall trees bleed into looming figures and the sun glares down at his shaking form. He presses his fingers into the heated shells of his ears in an attempt to stop the pulsing inside his skull, but it only makes it worse.

 

Eyes snap open to a closed door, dim light streaking across the floor. A shadow cuts through before melting into darkness. Silence builds up like pressure in his head, hollow skeletons wielding absent words -they dig into soft tissue and leave only hardened skin.

 

He twists and presses his forehead against the cool metal wall, trying to calm down; but the more air he forces into his lungs, the harder it gets too breathe.

 

An overwhelming sense of desolation swells where loyalty used to reside -it takes up too much room and does nothing to fill the emptiness.

 

He stills at the muffled sound of his name, followed by a sharp knock that batters against his eardrums and resonates through his spine. _What?_ Freeing his legs from the rumpled sheets, he all but vaults to the bunk door, his stomach rolling in protest the moment he stands upright.

 

“Hi,” Fitz squeaks startled, raised hand halting mid-air, as if it hadn't been his intention to wake him in the first place.

 

“What is it?” Grants asks urgently, eyes darting across the lounge to find only Trip slouching on the sofa, his head partially turned their way while he waves the remote at the screen.

 

“Uhm,” Fitz says, looking embarrassed, his gaze stuck somewhere in the middle of Grant's bare chest. “I didn't realize you were sleeping.”

 

“Told you,” Trip chimes in, making Fitz twitch with irritation, though more on principle than actual insult.

 

“Was there-” he clears his throat to dislodge the gravel in his voice, and the engineer's eyes snap upwards, expression melting into pensiveness. “Was there something you needed?”

 

Bright eyes peer from beneath a furrowed brow, and for a moment Grant feels like fidgeting nervously beneath the searching gaze. He knows better, however, than to display that type of weakness. The metal bracelet clinks against the door frame as he leans against it, and he tries not to wince at the sound. The unsettling weight lingers in the pit of his stomach; he thinks it might have been there all along.

 

Trip slings an arm around the back of the couch and finally looks their way, curious eyes training on the scientist's unmoving back. “We were going to watch a movie,” he says, a hint of confusion in his voice. His words hang in the air, but Grant's too distracted by Fitz' odd behaviour to realize he should respond. “Look man, if you're too tired-”

 

“No,” he interrupts, “I'll join you.” He glances at Fitz who steadily gazes back -he feels like a specimen mounted on a microscope slide. “Let me just change.”

 

\---

 

“I told her I loved her,” Fitz says out of nowhere, munching on some popcorn. Trip had to go to the bathroom and insisted on not missing a second, so the film is currently paused on the screen. “Before,” the engineer continues with a wave of his hand, “when we were in the pod-”

 

His training is all that keeps him from flinching, from breaking down and begging for forgiveness he knows he doesn't deserve -yet here he is, sitting next to a man who should hate him, a man who treats him with nothing but kindness.

 

“She hasn't brought it up and I think she hopes I won't either.”

 

He doesn't know how to respond to that so he just waits for the other man to continue.

 

“I pretty sure she likes Trip.” He falls silent after that.

 

“I'm sorry,” Grant forces out eventually, trying not to sound too awkward.

 

The engineer just shakes his head. “She deserves to be happy.”

 

He tries to think of something supportive to say. “Yes,” is all he can come up with.

 

Fitz scrunches his brow before dissolving into laughter. He's still snickering when Trip returns. The other agent makes no comment but grins his way. He feels almost proud.

 

\---

 

“This just got in," Coulson starts the emergency meeting that dragged them out of bed, pointing to the image on the screen which was obviously taken from a security cam. “This science facility in Colombia was raided yesterday.”

 

"Why do we think it's Hydra?" Trip questions, looking very much put together even though Grant knows he only went to sleep two and a half hours ago.

 

"They were quick and organised, and seemingly received some sort of military training. Also, a witness reported one of the men pulled an iron door from it hinges with his bare hands."

 

"Super soldiers," Skye exhales. Expressions shift from tired to grim.

 

"Most likely,” Coulson confirms. “Local authorities compiled a list of all that was stolen." He hands the paper to Simmons. "Maybe it will give us a hint of what they're planning."

 

“But I thought the data was destroyed and all the super soldiers were rounded up after Raina ran?” Fitz chimes in.

 

“That's what we thought,” Coulson affirms, “seems like they might be back in business.”

 

“Someone new selling alien tech?” May suggests.

 

“Or someone we know,” Coulson replies cryptically.

 

“You think it's Raina?” Grant deducts, brow furrowed, and the room goes silent.

 

“Let's hope not,” is all Coulson offers in return.

 

Skye shifts next to him, crossing her arm in front of her chest. She's wearing one of her plait shirts over her pyjamas, her hair flattened on one side and messy on the other. She looks beautiful, but he doesn't like the shadows that rear in her eyes, casting sorrowful lines across her face. They all know Raina is somehow connected to her past, that she may know more than she had admitted to Grant, but they still have no idea how. Skye had let the search for her parents slide after Hydra was revealed, but it's obvious to see it still affects her.

 

If they ever find Raina, he will make her talk -there is nothing to hold him back now.

 

\---

 

“Do you ever wonder what we do this for?” Simmons asks him, shuffling the papers spread out across the holotable. She looks tired, her usually neat ponytail sagging to the side, loose strands framing her face.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

She sighs, and rolls her shoulders to dislodge the tension. “No matter what we do, it seems the bad guys always bounce back.”

 

He ponders her words carefully but cannot find a decent reply. _Who are the bad guys?_ he wants to ask her, but he doesn't want to risk upsetting her.

 

“What you do is not pointless,” he tells her instead. It earns him a tired smile, but one that is grateful and heart-wrenching.

 

_Where is the difference,_ he wonders, _between me and them._ He looks down at his hands and grimaces.

 

_There is none_ , he realizes, rubbing the smooth band around his wrist, _that's why they need him_.

 

He feels like an attack dog straining on its leash, always one instinctive bite away from being put down.

 

\---

 

“Grant,” his sister sighs as she adjusts the patterned scarf around her neck. A strand of thick russet hair tumbles across her left eye, partially shrouding the bruise that colours her cheekbone a dark purple. With one last grimace at the mirror, she turns around to place a hand on his shoulder. It's meant to be comforting but her clasp is too tight, as if she's hooking her fingers behind his bones to anchor herself.

 

“Don't worry,” she tells him, shining that smile that siphons the light from her eyes. “I'm fine.”

 

With every day that passes, the lie grows bolder, until it eclipses all hope.

 

He stands by and does nothing -she blinks out of existence.

 

When one of his teachers asks him how he's holding up, he tells her he's fine.

 

\---

 

Over the course of several weeks, they follow leads that seem to go nowhere, until Coulson decides to have another team monitor the situation and return to the base.

 

He's greeted with little resistance, not even from Skye who looks like she hasn't slept properly in days. Grant thinks this may be the real reason for pausing the mission, if you could even call it that, and can't help but agree with Coulson's decision; even though the last thing he wants right now is to remain still, cooped up between concrete walls, artificial lighting and unfamiliar stares.

 

Not that he has any right to complain.

 

They retire to there rooms almost instantly, too tired to linger and talk, but he finds himself unwilling to sleep. He decides to take a shower, stripping until all that's left is weak skin and cold metal. He lifts his head into the cascade of water in an attempt to drown out all thought; but the droplets gather, invading his nostrils and slack mouth –it's a sensation he's all to familiar with.

 

He runs into one of the technicians in the hallway, whose steady stride falters before giving him a wide and unsubtle berth. Grant is sure the man has no clue as to what he's actually done, but it doesn't seem to matter. He can feel those judging eyes on his back, even as he lays in the dark counting his sins.

 

He wakes up to the phantom sensation of warm breath against his throat and thighs clenched around his hips. By the time he's regained his senses, frustration has settled into disgust.

 

There is nothing but ruin at his fingertips.

 

\---

 

“Can you believe that Jemma doesn't like chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream?” Skye asks, chuckling to herself, even as she scoops up another spoonful. She looks better, well-rested. He isn't sure if it's a question he's supposed to answer. He wasn't even aware a flavour with such a long name existed.

 

Skye stops eating to look at him, and he thinks perhaps she did expect him to respond. Her eyes narrow and she points his way with her spoon. “Do _you_?”

 

“I don't know,” he admits, holding her gaze. His chest aches.

 

“You don't know,” Skye replies, “or you don't _know_.”

 

“I've never tried it.” The exaggerated scandalous expression that follows his statement forces a smile from his lips.

 

“We'll just have to fix that,” she says, digging her spoon into her bowl. “Come on.”

 

“I'm not sure-”

 

“You can't not know what it tastes like,” she urges, “that's like blasphemy or something. Besides, I need someone to tell Simmons she's wrong.”

 

He never was able to resist those pleading eyes.

 

\---

 

It doesn't take long for him to start feeling useless again, even though everyone else seems to be enjoying the downtime, grateful for the repose. Coulson, of course, is as busy as always, but he slips into the rec room every other evening, settles on one of the recliners and watches his team goof around.

 

Grant isn't sure whether it's the safety of the base or the fact that they can finally rest after almost a month of unproductive pursuit that makes them act so carefree. Sometimes Coulson joins in, but mostly the older man just sits back and smiles at their antics, conversing in hushed tones with May when she wanders in.

 

Grant, for the most part, hovers at the edge of their presence. On quiet days, he curls into the couch and reads, his concentration only occasionally disturbed by whispered conversations or the frustrated tapping of keys. On more boisterous days, when everyone seems to be filled with too much energy, he spars with Trip or some other nameless agent, or is dragged into a heated movie debate by FitzSimmons.

 

He usually ends up confessing he doesn't know either film and they'll insist on watching them both under the pretence of educating him. Sometimes Skye or Trip join, but mostly its just them. Those days, he marvels at the ease with which they sit next to him, close enough to touch at the knee or shoulder. He thinks their commentary should bother him, but it doesn't; it keeps his attention on the screen and away from other less welcome thoughts.

 

It's the fourth movie night that shatters the harmony they have acquired.

 

\---

 

It's not the film that causes the issue, in fact it was quite enjoyable, if not rather lengthy. Jemma is fast asleep by the end, which is not surprising considering she'd been in the lab all day; but Fitz is frowning at the credits rolling across the screen as if they hold some kind of equation he must solve. Grant expects the man to get up any moment now to retrieve the second movie, even though he's not sure he's up to watching another one; but he's too comfortable and warm, and he doesn't want to wake up Simmons whose head has dropped onto his shoulder.

 

They've taken to sitting to either side of him. He's not sure why, and even though sometimes it makes him feel as if he's trapped, he finds he doesn't mind much. It rather reminds him of the way buddy would huddle against him for warmth. It reminds of others as well, memories that died long ago -he doesn't dare to disturb those graves.

 

The screen goes black and Fitz' frown deepens. He tilts his head towards Grant, briefly jerking his chin in hesitation, before turning completely.

 

“Do you miss him?”

 

The blunt question barrels into his chest; there is no mistaking his intent. Suddenly the room is freezing. He wants to get up, to run, but it's as if the ice has crusted in his joints -he can't move at all.

 

Fitz' gaze is curious and gentle but grows more concerned with every minute that passes. Grant wonders if he's afraid the answer might be _yes_.

 

_Tell him what he wants to hear_ , his mind urges, but his tongue won't stir; he can't bring himself to lie and he doesn't think he can explain -not in a way the other man would understand.

 

_Yes_ , he thinks, clenching his fingers to stop them from shaking; but he misses something that never existed.

 

Garrett never believed in him; he was only a means to an end. Grant knows this, but that doesn't makes it any easier to accept.

 

He tries not to think about all the time he dedicated to keep that man alive, because a part of him still wishes he was; a part of him refuses to believe it was all pretend.

 

If _he_ can't make sense of this, how could Fitz?

 

“Grant?” a soft voice enquires. _Jemma_ , he startles, _she woke up_. That's when he realizes he's standing, stock-still in front of the couch. He jerks forward, an aborted step that causes Fitz to jump to his feet, stumbling as he misplaces his weight.

 

Something grinds in the centre of his chest, smoke rising through his windpipe.

 

_It hurts._

 

“I'm fine,” he says.

 

Fitz remains silent, but his gaze turns sad. Grant wonders if he's disappointed.

 

\---

 

Darkness doesn't fall like a blanket, it snaps into existence with the flick of a light switch -only you don't notice until you open your eyes.

 

The world has little tolerance for those that learned to keep them closed.

 

\---

 

“It's your own fault,” his mother tells him as he sits on the parlour floor. His wrist burns and his knees ache, but he doesn't dare to move. She stares at his shrunken form with dead eyes and taps her cigarette against the side of the ashtray. “Next time,” she says, “do as your told.”

 

She returns her attention to television and he takes it as his cue to leave, pulling his sleeve down as he flees the room. He's halfway up the stairs before he realizes Cassandra isn't there.

 

He sinks down onto the steps and screams into his hands.

 

\---

 

“Ah,” his sparring opponent stumbles back, clutching her shoulder. He freezes in panic at the thought of having injured her, and that's when she sweeps his legs out from under him. Or at least she tries to.

 

They end up tangled on the mat, the breath knocked out of his lungs. She shifts on top of him and he doesn't dare to move.

 

“Well,” she says, blowing a strand of curly hair from her face, “I could get used to this.” She leans in closer in what he recognizes as an attempt at being flirtatious and whispers, “could you?”

 

He doesn't dare to speak, but the hand on his chest burns and it makes his skin itch. It's not unusual for him to be propositioned -though he is surprised she would, considering- but what if declining makes her angry enough to complain to her superiors?

 

“No,” he blurts, his throat constricting when he realizes how harsh he sounds. She doesn't seem to be bothered by his answer however, just quirks her lips and shrugs, before standing up. She offers him a hand and doesn't seem insulted when he doesn't take it.

 

He watches her suspiciously as she walks over to the bench, grabs her water bottle and twists the cap off, wondering if she's playing some kind of game. When she catches him looking, she holds out the plastic bottle and offers him some water.

 

He shutters, but has enough sense to shake his head and pick up his towel before stalking from the room. His legs quiver as he forces them to keep an even pace.

 

His heart is pounding in his ears by the time he gets to his quarters. He closes the door behind him and throws the towel on his bed.

 

A heartbeat later, he's retching on the floor, blood streaming down the walls and dark eyes reflecting his darkest convictions.

 

Because that part of him is still there, no matter how hard he tries to let it go -he still cares.

 

_It's a weakness._

 

_\---_

 

“I don't know who I am,” he admits.

 

“That's okay,” Coulson states firmly, though his gaze registers surprise, “you're getting there.”

 

_Am I?_ he considers, unconvinced, but nods anyway.

 

“You can be proud of the progress you have made,” the older man adds.

 

He lowers his gaze to his hands, where the metal band crosses old and faded scars, and wonders if it's true.

 

 

 

 


End file.
